The Bourne Complex
by Spiritual Stone
Summary: :2003/7 TMNT:Post Outbreak, Pre Ninja Tribunal: An ambush in the sewers leaves the Turtles with one brother missing and another mortally injured. Their enemy unknown and still searching for their shells, and something else lurking in the sewers, well, it's a typical Turtle week.
1. Divide and Conquer

**I do admit that I have two TMNT fics that I haven't touched in over three years, and it's been a very long time since I've written anything for them so I really shouldn't be starting a new one, but hey, I'm experiencing a revival, here. I've been watching the 2003-7 series virtually nonstop for the last week, and I reminded myself why I love those turtle so gaddamn much,**

**Because they're stupidly AWESOME. That's why. **

**I think I got back to them when I heard nickelodeon picked them up last year, and I've been trying to get their new episodes and finding the old ones nostalgic... and here we are. In my defence, this idea's been in my head for FIVE YEARS. Maybe even longer. It's time it got posted on the net. **

**Ladies and Gentlemen, here is:**

_**The Bourne Complex**_

**Part 1**

_All my fault._

He was screaming his brother's name as said turtle stumbled, his pained cries choked back by more gunshots, his body jerking back and back with each burst of violent sound. Somehow his brain was automatically counting the bullets ramming into his chest. Two. Five. Six.

_All my fault. All my fault_.

The words were ringing in his mind as he dove, catching the sibling that was still being mercilessly shot at, bullets catching his arms too as he protected the other from further harm. The words drummed in his heart, as he heard the other two coming for them, alerted by the gun's roars. The words were in his very pulse, beating, beating, beating with the blood that flowed over his brother's body and onto his hands.

_All my fault. All my fault. All my fault._

The smug flashlight tumbled and bounced on the sewer floors before it hit its head and went out. Swords cut barrels, the bo beat at the gunman, and there was so much rage in their war cries it was terrifying, because Donnie, _Donnie_ looked like he was ready and willing to beat the man to death.

He would be feeling the same if it weren't for the terror concerning the knowledge that there were _four bullets _in his brother's plastron, cracked like concrete around each wound. The other two were in his leg, the red rippling down like ribbons, like his mask. The blood was hot. It was so hot.

His brother croaked his name, asking if _he_ was okay.

"_Get him home_! Get sensei, get April, stop the bleeding just _get him home_!"

He was jerked into action by the desperation in fearless leader's voice and he was carrying him, taking hasty shaking steps that would've gained momentum, would've had him racing for home and health but there was one more shot, and it got him in the side. There was enough force to shove him off the lip of the path, and the storm-water was all too happy to swallow them both up with the rest of New York's trash. The water swallowed them both whole.

"_Mikey_!_ Raph_!_"_

He tried to hold on. He really, really did. In fact he'd been doing a great job despite his panic and terror and the dark but his brother was a deadweight and he was drowning and something that should've been too large to be in the sewers rammed into them both and separated them. Panic, so much panic, choked him more than the water ever could, because his gut-shot brother was drifting away face down and the light was out again and there was nothing but darkness, drowning terrifying darkness that was intermittently broken by sparks of machines being cut and more shots being fired. It didn't help that those were being swept away, and the water dragged him down. The hot blood on his hands seemed to sear into his skin no matter how icy cold the water was, and even as he breached the surface for air, desperate stinking blessed air, a low ceiling of a tunnel rammed against his skull, and for good measure skimmed him with the jagged end of a plastic broken pipe.

Even unconscious, the words haunted him, beat his soul to pulp.

_All my fault_.

… … … … … …

Leo didn't get the chance to snick the hunter's head off because Don beat him to it. With one, merciless uncharacteristically brutal jab of the bo, the human's throat caved in. He would probably go into shock, suffocate, die painfully and slowly. Quietly too, since his voice box would be mangled as a result.

Leonardo briefly wondered if all that had been calculated before slicing the companion robot of the hunter into three choppy pieces. The sparks flew blue in the dark of the sewer, sketchily depicting the little man's death.

The electromagnetic pulse or whatever that had been responsible for the blackout went away, and their world flickered back into the haze of old dodgy light bulbs and their own high-tech flashlights. It took less than two seconds for it to happen but it took even less than a tenth of that time for the two brothers to surge towards where Raphael and Mikey had fallen.

"_Mikey_!_ Raph_!_"_

They ran with the current, flinging the light of their torches over the turbulent water, calling for them.

A few yards and Raphael was in sight, caught against a blocked grille, his head above water thank god _thank GOD._ They dove in, dragging their freezing brother to the lip of the waterway, pushing him up like a sack of sand. He groaned, he bled, he was barely breathing.

Leonardo undid the knots that strapped his swords to his shell as he said, "Donnie, get Raph back to the lair, we have to stop the blood flow. I'm going for Mikey."

Don was already calling for backup on the shell-cell, hands shaking, sounding scared now that the initial rage had flown past. Leo abandoned his weapons and dived into the water but it was a futile effort, considering the dark and the amount of water and the fact that no matter how much he shouted Mikey's name he got no response.

That didn't stop him from trying for hours, desperate cloying fear tugging at his heart.

"Mikey! _Mikey_!"

The sewers roared with the sound of water, and drowned out everything else.

… … … … …

Something beat at his chest and he coughed up water. And half a lung.

Mikey scrabbled to the side, coughing and hacking, pain in his head and pain in his body and his throat and nose was raw from nearly drowning. Oh, ow. Ow, ow, ow, this really-really hurt. Like, beat-down by the Foot hurt. Breathing brought on a pang of angry ow-ness from his side, and he touched it and that hurt even _worse, _and when he looked at his hand, there was blood.

His brother's blood, so much blood. Of Raph's. Oh shell _Raph_. The orange-banded turtle's head rocked and spun, as if the brain inside was falling with Raph, onto the hard ground, perforated by lead or iron or whatever bullets were made of nowadays. The vivid image of those hunks of metal punching into his brother, one by one, each followed by a triumphant vindictive _bang_, _bang_, and oh shell, shell, if he hadn't picked up the stupid flashlight, if only he'd been listening to Leo and Don none of this would have happened, none of the blood, the screams choked off by pain and more bullets and then being _silent, _so scarily deathly silent.

Raph. Dead. Raph could be dead. Raphael could be dead and it would be his fault.

"No, shell no, please, please," Michelangelo crawled onto his front, dragging his body out of the water, not caring that it was broad daylight, that he'd been spat out onto muck-filled beaches where the pipes met the sea and river; he needed to get home, needed to save his brother, needed to….

What if he was dead?

"No."

What if Raph was already dead and they were just waiting for him with their accusations?

"Shell no,"

The world was spinning and the voice in his head was telling him that there was no way in hell that his brothers would ever forgive him this stupid mistake, there was no way their sensei, their _father_ would overlook this and let him live through it unpunished. Forever.

"_No_!"

Michelangelo lurched up onto his feet far too quickly for his head, which was still aching up a storm from the blows in the sewers. Dizziness hit him from behind like a mace, pain choking off his air and consciousness like a chain.

He blacked out again, a pair of eyes watching him.

… … … … …

Leatherhead's home was in utter chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless. It didn't help that Donatello was bursting in, screaming for his crocodile friend for help, telling the giant genius of the circumstances of the attack and how _Raphael, Raph, his brother_ wasn't even grumbling, he was deathly silent, and the blood was slick on Don's shell. LH recovered from the initial shock and went to deliberately calm work.

Thanks to the recent Outbreak and Don's recovery from it, there were lots of health-based equipment strewn all over LH's place. IV bags for Don's occasional dizzy spells, shots of insulin, penicillin, left over tranquilizers, tanks full of oxygen. They were lucky that the attack had occurred near the abandoned station, even luckier that the attacker had chosen _now_ of all times to do it. Raph's breath rattled in his chest, his perforated bleeding chest (that Don knew only the fundamentals about fixing), even as Leatherhead and Donatello placed him on a table and put an oxygen mask over his nose.

The purple banded turtle lurched to a stop as Leatherhead turned on all the table lamps onto Raphael's temporary gurney, the wounds making themselves starkly apparent. Oh God, oh god oh shell oh damn-damn-_damn_, six bullets. _Six bullets_. Four bullets in the chest, two in the right thigh, two eyes weeping red tears. Panic spread through him like a virus in a computer, shutting down all his cognitive processes and just _stranding _him there in a network of utter helplessness.

He was the closest thing to a doctor they had and he knew _nothing_, absolutely _nothing_ as to what to do.

Leatherhead immediately went for a tranquilizer and shot half its contents into Raphael's thigh. The whole dose, considering that they'd been designed for Bishop's accidental super-mutants, would probably have killed him.

The hothead growled something before he closed his eyes, face still screwed tight even in induced sleep. Don gulped, hands shaking as he put his bo aside to deal with the injuries. "How… how bad are they?"

Leatherhead inspected each one carefully, and the tension in his large shoulders eased. "They are not deep, my friend. The plastron seems to have taken the brunt of the damage, and judging by what you have said, these shots were meant to incapacitate, not kill."

Somehow that was worse, so much worse, but at least then there was hope. April and Casey rushed in, Splinter at their side, and Don found himself desperately thinking, _where in shell was Leo and Mikey?_ They should've found each other by now, they should've been rushing back, asking what to do, telling him what to do, the Fearless Leader and the reluctant Nurse, but there was no hope of them arriving anytime soon. It was up to Don to take on the responsibility of saving his brother's life.

He hoped the weight wouldn't crush him.

He ordered hot water, hot towels, a fire to disinfect his pincers and tweezers, fishing string, a needle. They stuck two IV bags into Raph's arm, and under the strongest flashlight he had, held by Master Splinter, Donatello and Leatherhead went through the process of extracting the bullets out of Raph's body, one by one.

It was maybe two hours till they could back away from the gurney, wounds sewn closed, wrapped, disinfected to the best of their abilities, Raph still breathing, Raph still alive.

It was another hour and a half before April and Casey went to look for the blue-banded turtle, and another two before Leo came back with them, shame and disgust and self-hatred in his eyes with Mikey's shell-cell and one of his nunchucks in hand.

… … … … …

He opened his eyes again, but this time instead of choking up water, he was choking up lunch. He scrambled off his back, coughing and hacking, his arms and legs not really understanding what he wanted them to do.

He finally got on his fours and hurled at the ground. It was Chinese food. Only Chinese food could taste this weird coming back up.

"Argh, gross."

He spat, twice, before even considering doing anything else. He tried to stand but his legs shook so much that he fell back on his knees. Though he had a feeling that with the dizzy spell, he wouldn't have been up on his feet for more than a second anyway. And his side. It was pulsing with a dull ache that made him wince, breathing more of a chore than an instinct to live. His head was pounding. Oh _wow_ his head was pounding. He grabbed his head and moaned plaintively, blinking back the bright blurry haze that came from a concussion. His ears were ringing like fire-alarms. Oh, yeah, this was definitely a concussion. A bad one, too.

Wait, wait, was that why he wasn't seeing anything? Like, _at all_?

"Oh, man…"

He blinked, and blinked again, but the situation didn't change. He couldn't see a thing, nada, zip, nothing at all, it was just darkness and terrifying silence. No, wait. There _was_ a sound. He listened as carefully as he could, despite the constant pounding in his head. Dripping. Water. And carefully avoiding where he thought he'd puked, his hands felt asphalt and concrete, damp too. The air, once he breathed it to taste it, was stale, kinda gross, with a hint of mould.

Okay. Okay, so there was a chance that he was underground. He tried to look at his hand in the dark, and thankfully, if there was like an inch between it and his nose, he could see its outline. Not blind. That's good.

He closed his eyes. Screwed them shut, really. Oh wow his head was _pounding_. How did he get here anyway? The last thing he remembered, was…

_Blood_. So much blood, blood on his hand, his conscience, screaming.

Another urge to hurl overcame him. What… what the shell _was _ that?

"So you're awake."

He yelped in response, the sound echoing in the stark dark. There was a silence after that, for a bit, but he thought he heard something shuffle in the dark. "What, who, who's there?"

The low rumbling woman's voice, accented with a touch of an Irish twang, hissed again. It was from a distance, but still, pretty scary. "You're my prisoner, so you can call me… who I am is none of your business. You can call me Jailor. Or Arbiter."

He blinked. "Uh…"

Another pause, but one that wasn't as long as before.

"First of all, are you alright?"

Considering the menace that the voice painstakingly exuded as it spoke, he was fairly confused. "Um, well, my head hurts, but I think I just hit it really hard…"

"You're not about to turn into a monster, are you?"

"Huh? What?" if confusion was a sport, he'd totally be awesome at it right about now. But seriously, a monster? What was this lady talking about anyway? "No? Um, why? I mean, why would I?"

"Everything has been turning into monsters." The deep gravelly lady-voice replied grimly, "Even fleas. So you could, too."

"Oh. Oh well I uh…" he winced, the sharp pain in his temple taking the most attention. He wasn't really convinced on the monster thing, since, fleas were tiny little buggers, (heh, buggers. Bugs.) but hey, if this headache went away if he suddenly monster-fied, he could be okay with that. "Okay. I'll be careful."

"Good," she responded with grave approval, "Now, who are you?"

"…What?"

"Who _are_ you?" it hissed with the most menace thus far, the tongue rolling with something close to rage, "And what are you doing by my home?"

Wherever he physically looked, it was dark. Just like his head. A stab of pain raced through his skull like nails, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was how Frankenstein felt all the time.

"I don't… I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't _know_?"

"I… I uh, I…." He stumbled back onto his tail, gritting his teeth, pressing the heels of his palms against the corner of his eyes. His head felt like it would shudder into putty, it hurt _that much_.

His name. He couldn't remember his own name.

"I don't… I don't know who I am."

… … … … …

**So yeah, reviews woud be much appreciated. Please try not to judge me by my other TMNT fics, they were written a long time ago, so the quality isn't the best.**

**Hope you enjoy!**


	2. Tales of Raph - Whispers of Mikey

**Hello to you all! Thank you so mch to those who've read and reviewed, and I hope you guys enjoy the rest of the show too. **

**Review replies are at the bottom!**

* * *

**-Part 2 -**

They sat vigil around Raph, lying on Leatherhead's table, his breathing still rattling in his ribs. Leatherhead brought tea, which they all took thankfully, though nobody took a sip. April and Casey had gone home, promising to bring back as many painkillers and bandages and disinfectant as they could. Splinter told them to rest while they were at it, but they all doubted that they would follow that advice to the letter.

Splinter held his son's hand, worry etched in the lines of his eyes. "Oh, Raphael, my son…"

Though the turtle's breath may have been steady it trembled, caught in a mist of pain inescapable even in sleep. His son's complexion was pale, making the bruises around his eyes starkly apparent, perhaps the wounds from fighting death's door and its invitation. He did nothing but breathe. Though thankful for that, Splinter only wished that he would open his eyes, even for a moment, to ease the heartache and worry gnawing at his very bones.

The oxygen mask clouded with each intake of air, and he watched it, fearing each fogged cloud would slowly wither.

Leo's hands were shaking around his cup in utter disgust.

He should be out there, looking for Mikey. Mikey could be hurt, he could be lost, could be injured and incapacitated, captured with no help nearby, or worse, Mikey could be just like Raph was right now, hanging on by a _thread_. It was a wonder how the cup didn't shatter in his grasp; his knuckles were white with tension. Don was doing his best to search for Mikey, he knew, but it still felt too slow, too agonizingly _snail-paced_. He wanted to run into the sewers and scream bloody murder, to sprint through the sewers and swim in tunnels and _find_ that lost goof-ball and hug him and punch him for making him worry so much. Then he would ask for forgiveness, for not finding him sooner.

Leo bowed over his drink, grinding the hard lip of the tea mug against his forehead.

Don was tapping at Leatherhead's computers, hacking into his own account at home, looking for the blueprints of the sewers in their area. The storm water was bound to head for the sea, or the river, so that had to limit where the water would go, right? At least, which pipes that were big enough to fit Mikey. The smaller ones he should just bump into, and from there, hopefully, he should climb out himself, and they could find him easy. If not, well, they could find him by the outbound pipes, where people didn't go anyway since it stank so much. Hopefully Mikey had enough strength left to crawl somewhere unnoticeable and they could find him there.

So many 'hopefully's. So much for being a scientist.

He just hoped… and he really, _really_ hoped… that Mikey wasn't stuck in one of those pipes, already drowned.

He shuddered and typed faster, marking schematics for possible Mikey refuges. And crossed his fingers mentally.

Leatherhead watched Raphael's vital signs, and prayed. He just prayed.

… … … … …

"I… I don't know who I am."

"Oh." The grave lady-voice sounded stumped. "Well… are you sure?"

"…What?"

She seemed to realise that she'd dropped her accent. The voice cleared its throat and sounded menacing again, a woman of the Irish mob. "Are you _sure_ you don't know who you are?"

"Uh…" he tried to remember his name. Where he was meant to be. What happened before he hit his head. The first came up zilch, the second came up zilch, and the third brought up nausea and the smell and fear of blood, so that didn't really help at all. "Yeah, I… I don't know."

"Oh." The lady sounded _really_ stumped, now. "Oh, um… I mean, I'll be right back."

"What?"

"I said I'll be right back."

"Wait, what, don't leave me in the dark, lady-voice!"

But there was a hiss that may have been a door closing, and there was silence.

He sat there, horrified and worried and most of all, confused as to _how the shell could he not know who he is_? Not even his _name_? How was that even possible? What-ow.

_Ow_.

Right, trauma to the head, or something. He held it again, moaning, and he felt something sticky there, and when he sniffed it, it smelt like metal. Blood. Oh great, lovely, just peachy and wonderful. This was a lot worse than he'd thought. Wiping it on the ground he whimpered, curling up into a ball, rocking a little, trying to ease himself out of the stupid headache. He was thirsty from throwing up; and hungry too. Oh wow, food would be nice right now. Any food.

And maybe a name.

He shuddered, not liking the dark, the haze of concussion playing mind tricks with his peripheral vision. Was that a shadow that played there, in the corner? The lady-voice had said something about monsters. How quickly did they show up? How quietly? Did they sneak up on you, leach your soul without your knowing? What if-

"Hey."

He squawked in utter terror and made the lady-voice yelp.

He blinked in the silence. The voice had sounded really… young. And not gravelly.

"You…!" the voice cleared its throat again, and sounded more like before. Only with a different accent. Indian? "You scared me!"

"Sorry? I, uh…." He needed to find a wall. Any wall, to lean his back against, to support himself. Even if he was just sitting down the dizzy spells made the room feel like a rubber floatie in a pool full of crazy kids. He started to crawl towards the voice. "You sort of scared me too."

"I wasn't gone _that_ long."

"Yeah, well… still." One hand in front of the other, one knee scraping before the next. He was wearing kneepads. One of them was loose. "Your turn."

"What's my turn?"

"It's only fair you tell me who _you_ are now, right?" his fingers brushed against a wall, which was a relief. His limbs were already moaning in protest. He spun onto his back with a groan, going back to cradling his head again. "And seriously, Arbiter? Do you even know what an Arbiter is?"

"Do _you_?"

"Not really."

"Oh. Me neither."

He chuckled at that. The voice was definitely coming from this wall. But higher. Maybe there was a window, or a ceiling hole or something. "So? What's your real name?"

It gave a very good effort at sounding menacing. "As if I would tell you, Prisoner."

He managed to roll his eyes as he leaned his head against the wall, too. It was pounding less, which was great, but that still didn't solve how thirsty he was. Or how hungry. "Hey, you can cut out the voice. Seriously. It sounds like you have a cold. Or you have like this, tiny little evil frog sticking out of your neck."

"Don't I sound scary? Not, not even a little?"

It sounded a little _hurt_ that was for sure. "Well I did say you might have a tiny evil little bug in your throat."

"You said frog." Now it sounded unamused, Queen Victoria style. Or was that Elizabeth?

"Oh. Eheh, frog, then. Does that count?"

This was probably one of the weirdest conversations he's had in the dark with someone he couldn't see, but that was okay. She sounded nice. If a little pouty.

"Oh, fine." The gravel was gone, and so was the menace. It sounded like a little girl now (well not that little, but still) and she sounded worried and nervous. The fake accent was gone as well, which was a relief. "Are you _sure_ you don't know who you are."

"Lady, I'm like, ultra-shuper sore. I mean, sure. Ultra, super, sure. Which shucks. I mean sucks. _Really _sucks. I don't even… what are we talking about again?" She was giggling at his stuttering, which made him sigh and rub his head a little. "It's probably because of the noogie I gave my noggin, you know? Concussion doesn't help."

"Ooh, I had that once. It was fun; I saw two of _everything_. Until it just hurt, obviously."

They were both giggling now. The amnesiac winced and moaned as his head told him to stop. "Ow."

"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that. Sorry."

"It's cool," he mumbled, wincing. His eyes were getting better in the dark. Just by a smidge, but still, better. It was because of the light bulb that he was surprised that he hadn't noticed before, way up in the ceiling, so smothered in dust and weak it looked more like a moon covered by clouds. He looked up, but there didn't seem to be a window or a hole. So no escaping yet. "So, uh… why are you keeping me here?"

"Just in case you don't turn into a monster, really," was the shrug-worthy response, "But you seem okay for now. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Chucking out food does that, sometimes."

He blinked dubiously, but a smile cracked his face. "You know, for a jailor… you're acting a little too nice. We're going to need to work on that, girl. Evil voice, treatment of hostages, the whole shebang. Not that I'm complaining, food would be awesome. And a drink. Any chance it'll be cold?"

"Eh," another shrug-worthy pause and a shuffle. "I've got old cereal. And a bottle of water. I'll try not to hit you okay?"

The cereal hit him right on the head ("ow"). The bottle of water thankfully missed. It clattered near his leg and he blindly grabbed it, feeling the weight of a half-full battered plastic bottle. "Thanks."

"I hit you, didn't I. Sorry."

"All good, little lady. Mm, cereal. Fruit loops?"

"I don't know."

No wonder; the cereal was mostly dust, and too stale to really taste what it originally was. The water had a hint of rancid, a touch of old, and generally lukewarm. Not the best sort of thing to be having when injured and concussed, but still it was a lot better than nothing. He made appreciative noises to drown out his urge to retch, hoping it was convincing.

"Hey," the little girl said, a hiss following her words, "What are those on your belt, by the way?"

He was licking bits of cereal off his hand, so it took him a moment to register her question. Belt? He was wearing a belt? There was stuff _in_ his belt that he didn't realise he was wearing?

He shifted his weight, and now that he was searching for it, he found it nestled against his uninjured side, almost as if it were part of him. He put down the cereal, slowly taking the things into his hands. Two sticks, it seemed, with some cloth wrapped around them for a better grip. Taking them apart wasn't an option; they were joined at the ends by a short chain. He blinked, disoriented. What… what… what was he doing with a _weapon_?

"So, what is that?"

"Chucks," he found himself saying, "Nunchucks. I… I remember these."

"Oooh, what are they for?"

"Uh… hitting people, actually." He groaned again as a flash of pain came with the knowledge. Seriously, if remembering hurt _this_ much, he could do without it for a while. There was a contemplative hum from the girl sitting somewhere above his head, which led to a giggle. The amnesiac frowned at that. "What?"

"Maybe you were playing with it and you bonked your head yourself."

"Oh har-har." He grumbled, though he grudgingly supposed that it was a possibility.

"Anyway, you need a name, so why not Chucky? You've got those nunchuck thingies, and you woke up chucking all over the floor! It's perfect!"

"Lady, that may be the lamest of lame ways to pick a name."

"You got any _better_ ideas?" was the smug reply, and he paused. Scowled. His head gave a spasm. Oh, yeah, thinking hurt. Thinking was bad.

"Fine, fine, Chucky it is."

"Speaking of puking," she continued with a hint of disgust, "I should probably clear the mess. It'll make the room _reek_. You rest. You have a concussion, after all."

"Um…" He blinked. Honestly, were jailors usually this kind? "Well, I could help?"

"Uh, no. I'm not allowed to let you out, and the cleaning stuff is outside. You should sleep. Sleep is good for concussion, you know."

"Oh, uh, okay."

"And you should finish your water. Water's good for concussion."

The prisoner couldn't help but smile. "You're just saying it's good for concussion to make me do it, huh."

"Yes, because it's good for your concussion."

They both laughed at that, and newly named Chucky crawled along the wall till he found a corner to lean against. Settling back, he noticed that his head was hurting less, but was a _lot_ dizzier, so that probably wasn't good. Chucky let his eyes close, holding the nunchuck in his hands. They were surprisingly comforting, for a weapon.

… … … … …

Leonardo lifted the manhole and invited April and Casey to slip through. They did so, wary of passers-by, Casey especially hampered by a large bag full of groceries, meds, and bandages.

"How is he?" April asked immediately as they clambered down the ladder.

Leo's expression tightened. "No change."

"That's good, right?" Casey rebounded hopefully, all three of them climbing into the shell-slider, "I mean, it ain't good, obviously, but he's not any worse, right? So that's good."

Leo remained like stone, and Casey's anxiety flared. "Leo, come on, he's my bro too. How is he, man? No change ain't bad, right? _Leo_."

"I said, _no change_, Casey," he strangled out, stabbing the ignition, his knuckles pale as he gripped the wheel. "I wish I could say more, I wish there was anything to add, but there _isn't_. Raph is still asleep. He hasn't moved. There's been _no change_."

What flared next was Casey's temper, but April placed her hand on his arm and shook her head. Casey hesitated, let his anger drop, and all that w was left in him was bone-gnawing worry. Groaning helplessly, Casey buried his face into his hands. April held him by the shoulders and wished she wasn't the one asking… "And Mikey?"

The reply was even stonier, angrier, if such a thing was possible. "No. Change."

They sped through the rest of the way in silence.

… … … … …

They'd moved him from the table to the couch where he was bound to be more comfortable. His torso was a cocoon of bandages and his leg looked much the same. Splinter was by his side once more, holding his hand, whilst Donatello stood behind him with two steaming mugs in his grasp. The purple-banded turtle handed one to his sensei, who took it gratefully, letting the aroma wash through his senses. He quirked an eyebrow.

"…Coffee?"

Don sort of jolted, and checked what he was holding. Hot hojicha. "Oh. Sorry Sensei." They swapped their drinks, managing to share a smile. "Do you think… we should tell stories to him, like we did with Leo?"

Splinter nodded slowly, wincing internally at the image of his battered son after being ambushed by the Shredder and the Elite Foot. He returned his gaze to his injured son, marvelling morbidly that though their injuries were so very different, the uncertainty of their survival was just as extreme as the other. "It may work. But let us wait for the others. As the great Nakamura Yoshimoto once said: the more the merrier."

The silence that was usually filled by another brother was deafening.

"He'll be okay, won't he?"

"It is hard to say, my son."

They finally heard Leo and their human friends coming in, and it was a relief from the quiet.

"How is he?" Leonardo demanded as he rushed in, Casey hot on his heels.

"We brought meds. Lots a' meds. Just tell us what ya need."

Donnie shook his head as they all congregated round Raph. "No change. We've actually done all we can for him, right now. He just.. needs to open his eyes. We were actually thinking of talking to him, all of us, see if we can get him to wake up like we did with you, Leo."

"…All of us."

It was a loaded statement. It jabbed at the obviously missing piece in their family, their dynamic, and everybody around winced. It didn't help that Leo was glaring at the cup of coffee in Donnie's hands. The accusation was unsaid, maybe even imagined, but the shadow of it made shame and guilt crawl into Donnie's gut. The knowledge, the _fact _that it was unwarranted and unfair didn't help.

"That's a great idea," April broke the impasse before it even started. "I'll make more coffee, or hot chocolate. I'll even go first, if that's okay. Or… what about Casey?"

Said guy blinked. "Uh, me?"

Splinter nodded approval and smiled. "You are, after all, his good friend. It would be an honour."

"I'll get the drinks. Start without me, okay?" April hurried off to Leatherhead's kitchen area, and Splinter invited Casey to his side, at Raph's head. He awkwardly sat there, rubbing the back of his head.

"Well I uh… you know, Raph, when you and I get together, we usually end up in situations that end up with the words, 'No telling Master Splinter', or something, huh. I mean, we kick serious butt and all that, and they make great stories, but you know… if you don't want me spilling the beans here, you might want to wake up. Like, now."

"Reassuring," Splinter grumbled, gripping his son's hand tighter. There was no response.

So Casey let it out. "Alright, well, here goes. Remember that time you and I went after that biker gang? It was just a little while after we first met, before I really got to know the rest of you guys. We were seeing who had the better ride and the good skills, and, oh _man_ the stunts we pulled that night, driving on those trucks and jumping between those bridge cables, and ooh, remember how me and you totally clothing-lined those Purple Dragons? Or was that another night? Hahah, that was…" he realized he was being stared at and Master Splinter had a look on his face that said he was tempted to terminate the friendship there and then.

Casey cleared his throat and continued, "Anyway, we cut it out after that one time you got really hurt. Like, I thought you were a gonner hurt. I… I got really close to cracking that bozo's head open, Raph, but you woke up and stopped me. We had to get outta there, pronto, and you literally clonked out as soon as we did, but, the whole point of this story is, you woke up. And you stopped me. You're my _best friend,_ Raph. When I go nuts, you're the only one that gets through to me, from going too far. You bring me back from the brink, man. I just… I just want to do the same for you."

He rubbed the top of the turtle's head, determination like flints in his eyes. "We're gonna bring you back. We promise."

And Casey backed off, standing, finding a mug of hot chocolate pressed into his hand.

"Good effort, Casey," April said, smiling. "Now, is it okay if I have my go next?"

Splinter nodded, and she sheepishly sat down, holding a cup of warm milk of her own. "Hey Raph. Just wanted to say, that, though you can be the most hot-headed, irrationally angry and insensitive person I will have the pleasure of knowing, you can have a sweet side too. Here's your one chance to deny it before I go on, okay?"

She dutifully paused, but Raphael only breathed.

April sighed before saying, "Remember that one time you were helping me with the shop's backlogged stock? Specifically the metal stuff, since I wasn't going to let any of you guys touch anything fragile after what you did to my china. We found trophies, trays, pokers and armour, and you found this dented silver plate with some engravings on it. I told you to throw it out, since it was far too damaged to even try to sell it. I didn't think much on it, till I found you fixing it. Actually, you and Donnie fixed a lot of my dented stuff, and thanks to that I made a lot of money from what I thought were useless merchandise, so thanks, but you know that's not the story. The dented plate, it belonged to Mrs M. You fixed it for her, and according to you, she only mentioned it _once_."

"Who is this… Mrs M?" Splinter hazarded, to which April blinked.

"I thought you knew. Mrs Morrison is a blind lady that lives a few blocks down from Adler Alley. Raph sometimes visited her and her cat."

The rat sighed at this new knowledge, wearily eyeing his wayward son. "I fear just how many encounters with humans he has kept from me thus far."

They were all sure some quip was in order here, but the moment passed.

"Anyway, the point of the story was, Raph, you have a surprising ability to listen. To listen and to care. She mentioned that plate once and you remembered, and you… you have a good heart. If you can hear us, if you're listening… come back soon, alright?"

"Yes, there is no telling what kind of things that will be mentioned in these moments," his father grumbled wryly, managing a smile.

"And while you're listening to your family, Raph," she added, kissing his forehead, "I'm going to go look for Mikey. I'm sure he's bound to have a great story about you, so feel free to wake up any time before I get back. Come on, Casey."

Casey grinned like a million bucks as April stood. "You got it, babe."

"April-"

"Don, I have the water routes." She was waving the papers, and Don realised with a sinking feeling that he'd left them in the kitchen. "Casey and I will split up and go for the likeliest path, and we'll bring him back. Just, kill time telling stories." She hugged him and smiled. "I'm sure we'll be back by then. And good luck."

"I should be saying that to you," Don sighed, before smiling back. "Thank you."

… … … … …

Somewhere in the dark, Chucky was having nightmares.

It involved lots of teeth, and his side melting like wax on fire, a sea of blood burning his hands and a constant pounding in his brain that drummed like a heartbeat. He may have heard roaring that sounded like a lion, a hissing snake battling it out with it, the two white animals baring fangs and incisors the length of knives. He groaned, half awake, half asleep, sucking on a cloth that tasted of juice and about-to-go-off milk, a voice singing to him as he drifted in and out of the dark. He was always gripping the nunchucks, so tightly that they were part of him, somehow. His side had been unplugged. Why else would it feel like he was leaking like a submarine? Or a keg. He was leaking like a boat-keg, with nunchucks for oars.

He shivered, hot and cold and hot and cold, his comfort that intermittent singing.

She had a really nice voice.

… … … … …

Leatherhead told a story of how Raphael, of all people, had taught him ways to control his temper. Irony aside, his methods worked, though he didn't have the luxury of the red-banded turtle's sure-fire way of _letting it all out_. He told how Raphael explained it like a kettle. Just put it away from the fire, or cut it off at the source. How sometimes that anger could make a good mug of coffee, or burn the hand. Leatherhead did mention that Raph sometimes just wanted to hear the kettle wail, just because he could, and they all smiled, and Leatherhead expressed his utmost hope that Raphael could continue his teachings, and to continue brewing his divine coffee.

The aged rat sighed thankfully that nothing terrible had been revealed.

Donnie told a story about how all four of them had snuck out to the surface again when they were kids, a few months after the stunt with teaching that human kid how to defend himself. Raph and Mikey had been fighting over a comic book they'd found, and they'd dropped it into the sewer water and made Mikey cry. That'd alerted a homeless person wandering in the alley to their presence, and it had been Raph that'd pushed both Mikey and him into a pile of trash to save them from being noticed. Raph had barely escaped detection himself, pretending to be a turtle-shell ornament for a broken set of gnomes till Leo threw a rock to keep the human's attentions someplace else.

Of course this story earned them a glare from Splinter, but he sighed and conceded that the past was past.

"Raphie, we all know that you have a thing for thinking before acting, but… sometimes, I wish you'd think. I wish you'd think of what would happen to yourself by trying to protect us like you do. You scare us, sometimes, Raph. The relief is fantastic, but still, you scare us. So, now, about that relief…? Any chance you'll wake up, now?"

Raphael shifted his weight, but slept on.

Donnie sighed, moving aside to let Leo in on the fun. "Your turn, bro."

Leo sat next to Raph and talked. And talked, and talked. He didn't know what he was really saying, he was half looking for some message, some moral that his brother and friends seemed to have seeded into their memories, and he didn't know what to say. Raph was rash. Raph was hot-headed, stubborn, passionate, and how it was his blessing and his curse. Sometimes, Leo found himself saying, that he wished his brother would change, but then that wouldn't be Raph anymore, it wouldn't be _right. _

"It's not… it's not right. You lying there, Mikey missing, it's not… this family can't function without all its pieces, Raph, there's no better or more important. We need you. We need to look for Mikey. Wake up for us, bro. It's not right without you."

Raphael mumbled something, but other than that, remained as he was.

Leonardo dropped his hopeful expression for one of misery. "Was _I_ this unresponsive when you were talking to me?"

"Well, we _are_ talking about Raph, here," Donatello quipped, adding more despondently, "You were a party compared to how this guy's going."

The blue-banded turtle stepped back as Splinter stroked Raphael's head, shaking his own. "Perhaps, one final story, before we rest. How long has it been since Miss O'Neil and Mister Jones left to look for Michelangelo?"

Leatherhead checked the clock he'd fixed, and sighed. "One and a half hours, Master Splinter."

The rat nodded gravely, before turning towards his still unconscious son. "Then perhaps it is my turn. And we can still hope Michelangelo will return to us whilst I speak. Now… I remember, as a child, that you, Raphael, my son, seemed to be afraid of nothing, not even for your own safety. That is, except for-"

His hand twitched. Raph's expression scrunched up, as he mumbled against the oxygen mask.

"Raphael. Raphael!" Splinter carefully displaced the mask, making said son wince. His brothers behind him were holding their breath, not ready yet to believe it. "You are… awake?"

"So _noisy_…" he grumbled, his upper lip twitching. "And sensei… _that_ story… is not leaving that tunnel. _Ever_. You…" he tried to sit up, but clearly that wasn't in the books for now. "You… promised."

"Then it is good," Splinter sighed with utmost relief, "That you woke just in time to remind me."

"All right _Raph_!" Leo crowed, almost shoving aside Splinter to get close to him, "Thank god you're okay."

"Yeah. It's good to have you back, Raph. I'm… going to go throw up, now," Don hastily retreated to the bathrooms, clutching his stomach and mouth. "Be right with you in a minute!"

"Wazzup with'im?" Raph hissed, swallowing, trying to put some of his voice into his words, "And… where the… shell is, Mikey?"

Their relief died a little, then.

* * *

**Okay I do admit the second half of the story is a bit of a cop-out, since, it's basically a Raphael version of Tales of Leo, but at least I admit it, right? Heh. XD**

**Anyway, review replies!**

_**Teriyaki Chicken**_**: Oh wow! It's you! Dude I haven't sen you in AGES! How's it going? Thanks for the review, and I hope you like this fic just as much as my LOZ ones, lol.**

_**Lunamayn**_**: Thank you! It's awesome seeing a new face in the reviewers list, so I hope you visit again, too!**

_**Juanita27**_**: Yeah, I know, disappearing for years on end is such a rude thing to do. I shall avoid it and finish this ONCE AND FOR ALL. I might even finish my other TMNT fics, though the Raphael-centric one is going to need a SERIOUS revamp.**

**Thanks again, guys, and I hope I get to reply to a lot more people. :)**

**Sincerely,**

**S.S.**


	3. Reconnaissance and Enemies

**Sorry for the late update! Got distracted by a few things, but I hope to those who look forward to this enjoy none the less!**

* * *

**Part 3**

Raph was filled in on what had happened as Donnie hurled his guts out and Leatherhead contacted April and Casey to inform them that the red-banded turtle had come to. Leonardo spoke slowly, since Raph was still obviously out of it, and barely conscious.

"Do you remember that hunter that went after Leatherhead, a few months back?"

Raph grunted, tightening his fist. "Crazy nut and… his lady-robots. So?"

"Well, we're thinking that he probably had a friend or two." Leonardo sighed, shaking his head. "The methods are very similar, but I admit we're working on an assumption right now; we need to go check on the body."

Raph was surprised, and a little unnerved. A body implied that somebody had lost control, and since Leo was here, talking to him without a hint of devastating guilt or sullied honour… damn. _Donnie_. No wonder he was yakking like a blocked sink.

"The hunter that trapped us, he didn't have as many gizmos like those mines, but he had that companion-bot, and according to Donnie, it set off an electromagnetic pulse. Or something similar to it."

"The blackout." Raph grumbled, nodding in understanding.

"That flashlight that Mikey picked up, it was planted there for us."

It had been a cheap trick. _All_ their light-sources had died, except for that flashlight that still used double-A batteries, something so ancient that the pulse had no effect on it. Of course Mikey would pick it up, Mikey who was still unnerved by the dark, Mikey who would point it at his brothers to show his discovery.

Putting his brothers into the limelight, an unsuspecting search-tower.

Raph gripped the sheets tight enough to rip. That goof-ball of a brother, missing for essentially two days? After all that'd gone down? Crazy. Wrong. This was so wrong.

"Gotta… find him." Raphael tried to sit up, but the blood wouldn't climb up to his head. He got dizzy, and was down before he could even get up even an _inch_. Even his growl of frustration was muted.

Donnie came back from throwing up, bringing with him a glass of milk. "You shouldn't be moving, Raph, at least not on your own. You lost a lot of blood, and I mean a _lot_. It felt like ages before I washed it all off in the shower."

That confession came with an uncomfortable silence, which he quelled as he and Leonardo helped their brother to sit up, piling cushions and blankets behind his shell before pressing the cup into Raphael's hands. "Here, you need to replenish your fluids, and nutrients. Milk should do the trick. I think you'll need more painkillers as well, soon."

Raphael grimaced at the milk. The cup was small, plastic, lightweight. It even had a straw so he didn't have to hold it up to his face. Somehow that seemed like an insult to his injury.

Raph cradled it between his hands anyway, having no strength to argue. "So what now?"

Leo was the one to answer, looking grave. "We'll look for Mikey. Two days with Mikey on his own is bound to be trouble."

"And me?"

Donatello rolled his eyes. "Rest, duh."

Raph glared at his glass of milk, drained it, and gave back the cup. "Gimme a gallon."

Leonardo scowled. "Raph-"

"Give. Me. A. _Gallon_."

"You'll have to settle for two litres, my friend," Leatherhead said as a way of apology as he handed over the carton, "It is all that I currently have."

"Close enough," Raph hissed, gripping the thing in his two hands, cursing, thinking to himself that if he'd been healthy, he would've been able to balance this on his sai as he drank. Now? He had to be careful; his hands shook, heavy as lead as he manoeuvred the straw into the carton, and he was dizzy from the work out. Drinking milk. A work out.

He drank like a fish, and dropped the empty carton on the floor as he wiped his mouth with his arm. "Now tranq me."

Everyone present went: "_What_?"

"I, said, tranq me." He growled, gasping, sweating. He definitely hated this. "You want me to rest? You tranq me. Or I swear I'll go stir crazy and explode."

"Raphael, that is not a wise-"

They couldn't stop him from finding the half empty dart that they'd used on him earlier, and in retrospect it had been an unwise decision to leave it in a place he could reach. Next thing they knew, he jabbed his own shoulder, and he was out cold.

Only then did April and Casey arrive, to find him back to sleep.

… … … … …

Now that Raphael was out of immediate danger, the two most important questions could now be assessed on.

First being: Was Mikey safe?

The second being: _Who attacked them_?

It wasn't the Foot, nor was it Bishop. The former had never been the type to use guns, and even if they had a change of heart towards that kind of weaponry, they wouldn't have used very un-ninja-like loud roaring shotguns. And the companion robot was at the very least… primitive, to what they were used to. The same went for Bishop, especially since he wouldn't have left the job to a single operative, who, judging by the attire and skill that they'd glimpsed in the tunnels, was low-grade at best.

So assuming that they now faced a new enemy, and they'd left the body full of clues in the sewers, it was up to Leonardo and Casey to return to the attack site before the enemy retrieved it. April and Donnie were back at Leatherhead's home, working out the routes for looking for Mikey.

The body was still there, thankfully, though it wasn't doing anything to improve the scent of the sewers.

Casey went around scrounging the robot pieces as Leonardo checked the man for any identification. There was a driver's licence that told him this human was a Harold Parker, and a business card mixed in with Starbucks membership receipts and other discount vouchers, described him as a personal assistant to an Abigail Finn.

Leo frowned. He vaguely recognised that name, but he had no idea from where. Which was… difficult. Lack of recognition implied that it wasn't a huge enemy that they had to deal with, but still, the fact that it seemed even a _little _familiar didn't bode well at all. Hopefully it was a name he'd seen on the news, and nothing much else. He tucked the business card into his belt before shouldering the body and climbing up the nearest ladder. They dumped it on the sidewalk once they were sure nobody was in the alley, and scraped the manhole closed behind them.

He also hoped that the robot pieces didn't have a tracking chip still operating in it as they took it back to where their brother was resting.

"We're back," Leonardo called, the bag full of scrap dangling from his hand.

"Thanks," Donatello mumbled, beckoning for the goods, and he sighed almost… happily when he faced the pile of metal. The very pile of metal that had hurt their family this grievously. The very pile that led to Raph being _shot at_, and Mikey missing shell knew where. Black anger roiled up Leo's guts, his fists clenching-

"I'm an engineer, Leo," Donatello murmured absently, his hands shaking as they tried to piece together the robot. "Not a medic. An _engineer_."

And that brought him back. Of course. _Of_ _course_. They'd dealt with cuts and scrapes and bruises and the occasional broken bone, but never real bullet-wounds; somehow they'd always been outstandingly lucky when it came to attackers who had no idea how to aim, and lazer blasters simply because they could see them coming. But _that_ many bullets in the _chest_, two in the leg, after killing someone out of rage…

"I… I'm sorry."

Donatello looked up, looking a little startled. Leo wondered if he'd even heard himself speak.

"I expected a lot from you, Don. Too much, actually. I… I'm sorry. Are _you_ alright? Is there, anything I can do to help?"

The tension in the brainiac's shoulders eased, and he gave a shuddering sigh. "With the robot? Not so much. What did you find on…" he swallowed. "The body?"

"A business card. Assistant to Abigail Finn." Leo reached for the card to hand to Don, but thought better of it when his expression went queasy. "Donnie?"

He swallowed again, tapping the hollow of his throat. "That… if that's the Abigail Finn I'm thinking of, we've met her."

Leo frowned. "I was afraid of that. Remind me what she's all about."

A long suffering sigh escaped him before explaining, "Mikey and I had to deal with her when we were at the farm, when we first went there to get away from the Shredder. She's a gifted biologist, a fairly brilliant inventor… and she's certifiably nuts. She calls herself a monster-hunter, and she spotted Mikey in the woods with a camera when he was taking a walk."

Leo's frown morphed into a scowl. "You think she's here for a grudge match?"

"I don't see how, since we managed to trick her with a moss suit… don't ask," Donatello rubbed his face. "Ugh, just… she couldn't have figured out who or what we are, though there were a _lot_ of close calls, but seriously? All we really did was shame her on national television. And even that may be an exaggeration, since it was just a press-conference. That's all that _can_ be said."

"Except she's back."

"Oh ye of profound epiphanies," he grumbled back, "And I just can't see _why_. Why the _sewers_, of all places? If she's looking for monsters she should in the Himalayas looking for yetis, or the Rockies looking for Bouldercats."

"…Right," Leonardo sighed, trying to fight the smile that threatened to emerge. Bouldercats? "So, Abigail Finn. Huge threat?"

"Not really. At least, she shouldn't be."

"So, do you think we could worry less about her and concentrate on finding Mikey?"

Donatello nodded resolutely. "Absolutely. I'm still going to scrounge through this thing, to see what other tricks it had, but at least we know who we're dealing with, right?"

"Good. I'll take April and Casey back up topside, before going into the sewers again for Mikey. You keep at Raph and the robot, and let's hope we don't find this Abigail in the sewers as well. And Don," he added as he turned away, "Thanks. Really."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he smiled, before returning to his task.

"Sure you don't," Leo smiled back, before calling for their human friends.

… … … … …

"I think his fever broke," said the little girl's voice, as someone dabbed a wet cloth against his forehead. He groaned, wondering what was happening to him.

"Wonderful."

The second voice didn't sound thrilled at all.

"Meanie Mina," the little girl grumbled, putting a corner of a towel into his mouth. It tasted of mango juice. "It's been two days and he hasn't turned into a monster, and he's not human. Why are you still worried?"

"Monsters don't have to have teeth and claws." the second voice growled, an adult warning a child of the world's dangers. "You should know that."

"You're nice to me and Alley, so why can't you be nice to him too?"

"We don't _know_ him, Lucinda," was the replying snap, "And if he's not a liar, he doesn't even know _himself_."

"We just need to find out when he wakes up." She reasoned petulantly, as Chucky's eyelids fluttered, "Ooh, I think he's coming to!"

No I'm not, he wanted to say, I'm _going_ to. Going to sleep, that is.

It was nice to know the little girl's name, though. Lucinda. He liked it.

… … … … …

It hissed in the tunnels, advancing on talons that gauged the concrete walls ragged.

It was too small here for it, too cramped for its wingspan, too narrow for its bulk. It had grown, it knew, in size, in appetite, in bloodlust. The fish in the sea had satisfied it to a degree, but now it had to be on land, in land, _under_ land (it was wrong yet right yet it didn't even know what wrong and right was, or whether it even had understood the difference, the importance) and it followed a scent that may have been familiar, sight warped, senses edged and jagged and sharp.

Its long beak opened, rows of little teeth rimming the leather tongue that dangled out, licking the sides of its face, an itch where the remains of the last meal still glistened and stuck to the feathers… irritating it.

It needed another meal as a distraction.

It kept walking, thinking it should be flying, thinking less, then nothing at all. Just acting. Searching. _Meat_.

… … … … …

When they'd arrived at the foundry, Klunk had been waiting for them.

_Klunk_. They'd totally forgotten about him.

Don had scooped the poor guy up, finding him water and food and attention, throwing out the litter and replacing it, his face strained in a way that Raphael could _feel_ like the hum of a microwave. Even as Master Splinter and LH helped him to his room, he knew something was up with his brainiac of a brother but nobody was telling him _anything, _which was frustrating as hell.

It didn't help that Mikey had been missing for over forty-eight hours, now.

Raphael really, really hated staying at home, because he wished he was _doing_ something, _anything_ than just sitting, no, _lying_ here, doing nothing but breathing and healing and twiddling his thumbs or sai while his brothers made themselves useful and searched. He wished he could just tranq himself again and again till he was better, but that was a slippery dangerous road, not to mention being unconscious and actually sleeping was worlds different in terms of getting better.

He tried to meditate, as Master Splinter instructed, to try and gather his chi where he needed it most, to pool it or them or something where the holes in his chest were, to stimulate the healing, to-

This was seriously bullshit.

Master Splinter wasn't looking, he was sure of it. And since Donnie was busy in the lab and Leo had all the fun of looking for Mikey, Raphael was sure he was alone. He swung himself out of bed, gritting his teeth, bracing his hands against the head and wall, slowly, _slowly_, willing himself to stand.

It was excruciatingly… _uncomfortable_.

But he could stand. He sort of hop-limped because the shot leg was in no condition at all to take his weight, in a full circle around his room, always keeping at least one hand to the wall, stopping if any dizzy-spells hit him.

If he was human he'd be sweating, he was sure of it. It was bad enough that his whole body felt like it was burning up.

"One more turn," he told himself, and that was all he needed.

Gasping, he lay back in bed, his shaking hand reaching for the plastic bottle full of milk. A bottle full of milk. Shell, he felt like a _baby_. He unscrewed the cap to save him some sense of dignity before sipping, slowly, the first time waking up with the urge to hurl everything in his guts to the floor telling him that chugging it was a bad idea.

Sighing, he put it back on the table, and flopped onto the bed.

Good. He was a lot more tired than before. He closed his eyes, breathed, trying to meditate, calming his breathing, slowing it so that it wouldn't stretch his chest…

Master Splinter found him asleep, and a little relieved, he closed the door to his son's room.

… … … … …

Twilight made his search hard, but Leonardo finally found it in the mud; Michelangelo's bandana. He bunched it into his fist and looked for cleaner water, and once he rinsed it, his fears were confirmed.

There was blood in the cloth.

It could be Raph's, considering how much he'd bled that day, but so close to the head… no, it was probably if not definitely Mikey's. So, injured to the head. Missing a nunchuck and shell-cell, and still no sign of him heading home. He was only half-armed, without any way to call for help, possibly incapacitated.

The worst combination if you were a mutant turtle desperately avoiding capture at all costs.

He quelled the urge to panic down, coming back to the muddy bank. Where the bandana had been, there was a large shallow rut that still hadn't been washed away, probably Mikey being dragged. Not carried. Odd.

He looked for more tracks, but there were no footprints, just, ropey furrows in the dirt that made no sense. Mechanical tentacle arms? No, too smooth. If he had to hazard a guess…

But that was ridiculous. A snake? Really?

But then again, considering the stuff that they'd been through, it was best to keep an open mind.

So. Dragged, not carried, so chances of superior numbers were low. Same went for technology. Hopefully whatever adversary that faced them this time was weaker in strength. If snake, or something serpentine, then it lacked limbs and was easier to fight against (unless they were like Lord Hebi)… hopefully. Obvious tracks left was a sign of an amateur, or carelessness.

A chill worked into his shell. What if it was another mutant, something left behind from Bishop's Outbreak? That explained the serpentine nature, the lack of thought, the…

The idea of Mikey being eaten by a giant worm-thing was generally _not fun_.

Leonardo had to stop his heart from hammering. He had to. He clenched his fist round Mikey's bandana, telling himself to calm the _damn_ _down_, or else he would choke on his worry and guilt.

Michelangelo could fight a worm thing in his sleep. He would be fine. He _had_ to be fine. It was against more sentient enemies that they needed to be wary of, the Foot, Bishop, this Abigail Finn, if she still hadn't given up. Leo wondered how strong this woman was, whether she would be able to carry his brother to her truck full of equipment, or would be forced to drag him through the mud.

But still, no footprints. So that was most-likely, and thankfully, out of this equation.

He followed the track of Mikey being pulled through the dirt till it came to another pipe that led into the vast sewerage system, but this time it was narrower, something he had to crawl through to get in. So whoever had captured Mikey, they were definitely smaller. He crawled on his stomach, the hilts of his swords often scraping on the ceiling, making him wince. There was no real congestion of filth in the pipe, thankfully, so he didn't get stuck. Once Leo got through, he grimaced.

The light of the torch revealed pipes. So, many, _pipes_.

But he could figure this out. Obviously pipes that wouldn't fit him wouldn't fit Mikey. The ones sloping up would be too much a hassle if the kidnapper was _dragging_ him, it would have been too strenuous a task, too _heavy_.

And if there was, in Leonardo's worst bizarre nightmares, a giant worm with a green foot sticking out of its gaping maw, there would be no telling just how ugly things could get.

The timer on his phone beeped. Cursing, he stopped it, called home, told Don that he had a lead, and promised to return. He hung up, sighing.

Somehow crawling back out that same tunnel wasn't the most inspiring thought.

He really hoped Mikey was alright.

… … … … …

**Reviews appreciated!**


	4. Complications

**Usually, I'm all about saying thanks to readers and leaving review replies here so that people not signed in and stuff won't fee left out, but I am too exhausted right now. Seriously. It's 11pm and I need to go wash a shirt with my bare hands so I can use it for tomorow morning's shift at work. Why did I not do this with a machine earlier in the day? Cuz I had work. And it was raining so the washing hadn't been done. And we have no dryer. **

**Fun times. **

**So yeah, will leave review replies when I'm not exhausted enough to collapse, lol.**

**ENJOY!**

* * *

**Part 4**

Donatello tried to get his hands to stop shaking, but that wasn't going to be happening on the short term. The robot pieces that'd helped the temporary loss of two brothers (he tried not to dwell on how they were still missing Mikey) was strewn in front of him, taunting him.

How is it that he had to fix something that'd torn his brother apart?

He gripped the edge of his desk, the skin over his knuckles straining. He was feeling sick again, despite the fact that everything should be _fine_, he was _fine, _his brother was _fine_ now there shouldn't be-

The image of Raphael's cracked plastron forcefully pried open by his tools, leaking life-blood as he searched for bullets with a flashlight.

Donatello slammed his forehead between the space between his hands and told himself _no_, he wasn't going to hurl again, he really wasn't. He really, really wasn't okay he clearly was.

He retched and coughed into his scrap bin, the smell of bile-splattered metal reminding him too much of the haphazard surgery.

Donatello roughly shoved said bin away, coughing and gasping, eyes stinging. Gripping the edge of the desk again he hauled himself up from his hands and knees, glaring at the pieces he was meant to be studying, and in a fit of unadulterated rage he grabbed a large wrench and cleared his desk in a violent swoop, shattering metal and tearing wires asunder.

He needed to get out of his lab.

He stumbled out, hands still shaking, repulsed by the very idea of touching any of his equipment for anything right now. There was only one thing that would stop the shaking, so he went straight for it, opening the door, closing it gently behind him.

Raphael was sleeping in his hammock, not the bed that'd been provided him, and Donatello almost laughed. He should've been beside himself with indoctrinated ire, but he was just so _glad_ that Raphael was as stubborn as usual, healthy enough to even climb onto his damned choice of bedding, _alive_ enough to be _sleeping_ instead of unconscious or dead.

Pain was written all over Raphael's face, even in his sleep, but even that was a wonderful relief. Pain meant life, in this stage of healing.

Donatello gently touched the bandages over Raph's chest, the trembling in his fingers slowly easing as he felt his brother's breathing through the cloth, the gentle rising and falling of the plastron. His other hand went to Raph's head, checking for a fever and just reassuring himself with skin on skin contact, and though his injured brother twitched, Raph slept on.

Don took a deep breath, let it out, and stayed there till his hands would stop their ridiculous shaking, before letting himself out.

He gathered his duffel-bag after checking the time. He probably had two hours before he would be missed.

He went through his mental Theft List. Painkillers. _Lots_ of painkillers. Disinfectants, bandages, maybe some plaster to seal the plastron wounds closed, anything nutritious. Dare he risk looking for IV bags, and the wrath he would face on trying to stick the thing into his brother's arm?

Rope, he decided, in case he needed to hogtie Raph to a proper bed so he wouldn't hurt himself. And to make sure said injured brother took his IV with as little struggle as possible.

At the back of his head the word _dishonourable_ was whispering at him, but he gave it a mental cold stare before heading out of the complex. Raphael was still facing a sheer cliff that he could easily tumble down because of the smallest infection. If Leo was going to take the lead in finding their missing brother, then he was going to do whatever it took to get Raph away from that fatal edge.

Between losing a sibling and dishonour, dishonour could take a place in the backseat. No, in fact, it could take the trunk and be tossed around in it as he drove the vehicle from one hospital to another, stealing from them all.

… … … … …

He woke up lying on his front, with a threadbare blanket over him and an even more battered pillow under his cheek. A distance away he could hear Lucinda singing the ukulele version of 'Somewhere over the Rainbow'. Wow. She really did have a nice voice.

He'd been moved into a room with more light as well, or they'd let in more light to where he'd been all this time; she really was too kind to a supposed prisoner. At this rate he was a guest.

Well, sleep overs were awesome anyway. "Hey…"

"Chucky!" there was a hiss of something being dragged against the ground, and her voice was right in front of his face. "You're awake! You're okay!"

He stared at her dubiously, and wiped his eyes. "Am I still dreaming?"

"Why?"

"You're a talking snake."

Said snake nodded. Her forked tongue flickered over her scaled lips, and she smiled widely, revealing rows of fangs. "Yep."

"A _white_ talking snake." Just like his dream. So he must have been awake for that part. Just tripping on the fever.

"Yep."

"Uh… okay." Chucky just decided to accept it, since glancing at his own green three fingered arm and hand, he wasn't exactly normal, either. "So you're…"

She giggled, her eyes swirls of pink and red. "Sorry I didn't introduce myself, but I'm Lucinda, and I like being called Cindy. So I'm Cindy. Hi."

He managed a smile. He was tired, he was achy, his head felt hollow from hurting so much; he deserved a medal for smiling. "…Hi Cindy. Thanks for looking after me, gal. I'm… one handful of a prisoner, huh."

"Indeed," the second voice said, "You've been quite the handful."

Chucky froze, fear creeping into his heart. He remembered that voice from his dreams, and he remembered that it had sounded really angry. Also, if his fever dream had been so accurate with Lucinda being a snake…

He had a creature capable of tearing him in half sitting _right_ behind him.

"…Who's there?"

"That's my mum," the snake explained, glancing back over from where she'd come, "Well, my sister. She's both."

Chucky gripped the ground, his arm muscles trembling. He had to turn around, had to see. Thankfully Cindy was a tiny thing, well, not tiny, her head was big as his palm, but still, if there was any chance that the cat was the size of, say, a Chihuahua…

He managed to turn his towards the voice, and flinched, giving a high-pitched _meep_.

It was a white lion. A white _lion_. Its black eyes flashed with malice and face was squashed and it had teeth too big for its mouth and it… it… it was really, really big. Did he mention that it was big? It was probably as big as him, thick in the torso and strong in the limbs, its white coat grimy from the sewers and the more terrifying for it. And he really didn't have the strength to scramble back, having just recovered from a fever or something. Oh, and bullet wounds.

Cindy laughed outright. "You sound like a _girl_!"

"I do _not_!" he squeaked, and shut his mouth up as the lion growled. Wait, no, from that tail, and the ears, it wasn't a cat. It was a dog. Oh, shell, a lion-dog thing that could talk and was probably going to eat him. No _wonder_ they'd wanted him healthy; they didn't want to get indigestion.

Oh shell- shell- shell- shell- shell…

"Quiet." She growled, and Chucky obeyed. "Now, tell me who you are."

He shook his head at her, frantic. His voice was a squeak. "I swear I don't know. I swear."

"I can smell lies, _boy_."

"Then I should be fresh!" he burst out, scrambling back, vaguely surprised with himself that he could do that, but then again those teeth were freaking _terrifying_, "Like, pine-minty-air-freshener fresh, with no whiffy stink of a lie. Unless lies smell good? _Do_ lies smell good? Either way, trust me, I don't smell of lies. I'm lie free I am! Honest!"

Cindy giggled again. "You're funny."

"Lucinda, come here." The lion-dog thing growled, making the snake pout. Chucky's side flared in agony, grabbing it, feeling that bandages wrapping his shell and plastron. "If he's feeling well enough to bellyache like this, then he's well enough to hurt you."

"But he _won't-_"

"I _said_ come _here_."

Cindy grumbled and slithered over to her, and Chucky died a little inside. He was so going to be eaten. It was a certainty, now.

"Now," the lady-lion-dog snarled, stalking towards him, "What are you?"

Chucky stumbled back even further but his hands tripped and he was flat on his shell, making his head dizzy. Right, just recovered from a concussion, and fever and an injury to his side. His head _hurt_. He could see no route out; escape wasn't an option here. Still he tried, inching back till his shell hit a wall. "I really, really don't know. Please don't eat me."

"You wouldn't make a decent snack." She spat, which made him a little relieved, "I'll have to settle for a chew toy."

He moaned. "Can't we work this out like gentlemen? Emphasis on the _gentle_? Poor little turtle just recovered from concussion, as you know."

"Please? Mina?" the little snake flickered her tongue at the larger animal, "He seems nice."

The voice that replied was aggressively exasperated. "They _all_ seem nice to you."

"Only the nice ones."

"I'm nice." Chucky shot his hand up into the air and waved it. Then he gritted his teeth and went back to holding his injury. "Candidate for the Nicest Person Ever Awards, right here. At least I would be if there was one."

Cindy looked utterly convinced. "See?"

"Both of you, quiet." The white dog rushed him and he gave another girly scream, and her massive weight nearly crushed his chest as she rammed a paw onto his plastron pinning him there to… sniff him?

Chucky blinked as the dog inhaled, twice, in long deep breaths. Her frown didn't move an iota, but when she got off him her tension had eased. "You're clean."

The turtle blinked again as the dog grunted away, the snake sweeping up to him to check him over for injuries. "How's your side?"

It was stinging like a couple of wasps were partying in there, dancing to the beat of his thundering painful heart, but it somehow felt a lot better than when he'd first been dragged in. "Better."

Something clattered to his side, knocked there by a swipe of the dog's paw. It was a bullet blackened by blood. It was pretty big. "That was what hurt you."

Chucky shuddered.

"Humans," the dog continued, settling back on its stomach, "Hunt with those. So obviously you're no friend to them, just as we are, but that doesn't mean you're exactly on our side, either."

"The enemy of an enemy, right?" he rubbed his face, wondering if it was okay to feel less terrified, now. "Uh… so, you're… what?"

"That means he can stay, doesn't it?" Cindy asked, her whole body undulating with hope, "We can't leave him out there if the humans are looking for him, right?"

"But that doesn't necessarily mean we can keep him, either, Lucinda," the dog growled, "He compromises our safety. If the humans were planning to kill him, then fine, he can stay long enough to uphold that illusion, but if they wanted to hunt him and keep his hide, they're going to keep looking. If they find you here, green boy, you're going to put us in danger. Put _my daughter_ in danger."

"Mina…"

"I haven't dragged your sorry tail out of here yet because Lucinda insisted on looking after you. But now that you're better, I will say this: I want you gone. I take enough risks to keep us fed without you adding fuel to the fire. I'll give you the whole of a week to gather your strength and leave. If you're not gone by then, I will chew you out. Understood?"

Chucky gulped, and nodded.

… … … … …

"Leonardo. Were you able to find any clues?"

Reluctantly, Leo offered what he found to his father. Splinter's eyes flinched at the sight of so much blood on Michelangelo's mask, and the weapon that followed. "I think something took him. It wasn't the Foot, or Bishop, not by what I found, but… _someone_ has him."

"Your reasoning?"

"There were no footprints, but there were tracks showing he was dragged away. He must have been unconscious at the time, and…" Leonardo winced. "That's all I have, Master Splinter. But he's in the sewers, underground. It's where the tracks led, I just need more time to figure out where he is."

The aging rat nodded, giving a soft sigh. "I see."

"How's Raph?"

"No worse than before." The rat assured his son as they headed towards the kitchen, "I suspect he has been doing some exercises that Donatello has strictly forbidden him from. Those two are currently in a session."

"…Session?"

There was a muffled curse and a noise that sounded like something being knocked over. It came from Raph's room. There were a few thuds, more curses, and then silence.

"Yes." Master Splinter said with a straight face, opening the fridge, "A session."

"Should I… be stopping them?"

"I suspect that in some ways, it should be encouraged," Splinter drawled, taking out a box of canned chickpeas from the door-shelf before retrieving a few plastic-wrapped bundles of pickled vegetables, and their precious supply of dried meat. He took a single strip of jerky from it, put the bundle back, and then closed the fridge door.

"Leonardo, if you would prepare the rice?"

"Yes, sensei," said son replied, getting a cup and measuring five scoops from their bucket, starting the process of washing the grains as Splinter cut the vegetables and jerky into bite size pieces and, on a whim, opened a can of fruit as well. The syrup of the can he kept in a jar to make preserves of his own, and the orange pieces he placed in four bowls. The vegetables and jerky went into the rice, followed by water and salt and a dash of ginger powder. They boiled it for just over an hour, giving Leonardo plenty of time to rest, prepare his swords, and ready plates at the table. It also gave Raph time to recover from his scuffle with Doctor-mode Don, who could be a terrible force to be reckoned with.

The okayu, once ready, was stirred, ladled out, and Splinter froze.

He'd readied a fifth bowl. Why not? There had been enough rice-porridge for the five of them, they'd prepared enough ingredients, without thinking. It was second nature, was it not?

But how could they have missed the fact that _Michelangelo was not there_, when that was what was constantly and achingly on their minds?

Splinter gathered himself, ladled out the last portion, and carefully plastic-wrapped it before placing it in the fridge. "For when he comes back."

Leo nodded, and on doing the same for the fruit-dessert, he called for Don and they had lunch together in Raph's room, who stubbornly ate with his own two hands even if it took him the rest of the day to do it.

He didn't have the stomach for dinner, and he really didn't want to take so many of those damned pills that Don was insisting he take (through needle or mouth, it was his choice) but the canned pieces of orange with custard and bits of cereal that Splinter dangled in front of him did the trick.

Raphael grumbled at himself as he drifted back to drug-addled sleep. He always fell for that.

… … … … …

_Hunger_.

It knew it. It was an old friend and enemy, hunger. It drove it to hunt, to provide for itself and others (others? What others?) and it was what beat it down and made it weak. Or it had used to.

Now it made it stronger and less merciful and all the while _angry_.

The rats weren't enough. The trash wasn't enough. The stray dog hadn't been enough and still it growled, its whole body and throat and mind growled for food, meat, _white_ _meat. _A long sinuous strip of meat, thick haunches wrapped round tough bones just right for chewing, it knew it, they were here, somewhere, waiting for it.

A rat risked going over its talons, and it was the last decision it ever made as teeth and beak crunched its body into two.

… … … … …

Chucky had opened the bandages to his side, and winced. The wound was a nasty thing, sticky with blood and impossible to tell if it was being infected or not; the bridge that spanned between his plastron and shell was yellowish, so it was impossible to tell if it was leaking puss. Not to mention green was his natural colour, so flesh-rot was would be hard to spot too. But then again, it didn't hurt _that_ much, not on a blood-poisoning scale (not that he would know about blood-poisoning-level-pain, right?)… so he was healing fine, right?

Cindy poked it with the tip of her tail. "How's that?"

He recoiled. "_Ow_. Oh wow this is ow-ness on a pretty high level."

"Then we'll disinfect it some more, kay?"

Chucky whimpered as the snake slithered over to a pile of medical supplies, combing through the battered boxes till she found what she sought. He glanced towards Azmina, who was scowling. No help from there, then.

"Hold _still_," Cindy grumbled with a spray-type disinfectant in her coils, which she was trying to use on the wound in Chucky's side, batting away his hand when he tried to clutch it. "I just-"

"I could do it myself," he offered, but she growled and determinedly sprayed him with radioactive-yellow ooze, missing the injury completely.

"Just because I don't have hands that doesn't mean I'm not _useful_," she snapped, and with another clench of her abdomen she sprayed him in the side, coating it in frothed medicine, and managed to get his eyes too.

Chucky screamed like a girl and Cindy scrambled on top of him apologising profusely.

Azmina growled and covered her head with her paws.

… … … … …

Leonardo was tracking Mikey's trail when he found something he really hadn't expected to find, and it sent chills to the marrow of his bones.

Foot prints. No, more like claw-prints as long as the span of his two hands, and the tracks could only belong to one thing.

He took out his shell-cell and just barely stopped himself from calling home. Cursing, he rubbed his hands against his head, frustration bubbling up to the base of his throat. An Outbreak mutant? _Now_? They'd combed through the sewers _twice_ to make sure all those monsters had been cured, and one giant one decides to hop out of the brick-works _now_?

The possibility of Mikey getting eaten by something serpentine seemed less implausible, too. _Damn it_.

He had to prioritize. Mikey or Mutant? Mutant or Mikey? Of course his heart was screaming at him that it should be Michelangelo, he had to find his brother before the Mutant did, who _cared_ if it found its way to the surface and terrorized the citizens above and gave Bishop another headache? It was a headache that _Agent_ (of Hell and Nightmares and Beyond as far as Leonardo was concerned) well and truly deserved, and for once the humans could deal with their own problems whilst _he _dealt with theirs, a missing brother.

But then again, there was no guarantee that the Mutant wouldn't meet Mikey before he and Donatello found either of them.

Cursing, the katana-wielding ninja called Leatherhead.

It rung three times before there was a worried, "Hello?"

"Leatherhead, it's me, Leonardo. Bad news. There's an Outbreak mutant."

He heard the crocodile's hitched breath shudder through the phone, till it settled and he said, "I see."

"Is there any chance that you still have some antidote?" Leo didn't let himself hope that there would be even a drop, or a piece of paper with formula scribbled conveniently on it left around somewhere. He was already thinking of ways to break into research facilities to get whatever ingredients they'd need to cook up this cure, or even use one of Don's machines to herd it out of the sewers, at least, the idea of letting the humans handle their own problems gaining considerable favour in his mind.

"I do, in fact, have a batch freeze-dried in my storage."

Leonardo froze. "…You _do_?"

"I had… kept it, in case of a relapse."

He couldn't help but shudder. If Don had relapsed into being a spit-frothing monster, he didn't know what he and his family would have done.

So, there was an antidote. So it was up to them to capture the creature, or corner it, or something, and administer it before it did too much damage to anything in its path. And the herding it out of the sewers plan had been so _tempting_, but now that he _knew_ that they had the means to actually fix the problem on a potentially permanent basis, it would be wrong to send it on its way to eat the next grandma walking in the park or something.

Sometimes he didn't like being so honourable and right, but being _wrong_ was like having the grossest itchiest goo slathered all over his skin and doing anything less than right was just… _wrong_.

Leo asked Leatherhead to meet them at their new home to prepare the formula or something and figure out a plan to get rid of it. Once he hung up, he glanced at the track, confirmed ruefully that it was _far_ too big to belong to anything naturally existing in New York sewers, called home.

It didn't even finish the first ring. "Leo?"

"Don, bad news. I found tracks of an Outbreak mutant."

There was a disturbing silence from the other side. Leo waited as Don processed the information, eliminated the chance that Leo was playing a very sick twisted joke, and said, "Right. You're sure."

"Think bird tracks but big enough to squash our heads in."

Another silence and a deep ragged sigh. "Thanks for the delightful visual, bro."

Leonardo winced. "Sorry."

"So what are we going to do?"

"I'll head back home; I've already called Leatherhead for some help, and we can figure out a strategy for cornering it and curing it. You think we could fill tranq guns with the antidote? At least then we'll reduce the risk of catching the virus ourselves…"

"What about…?"

The question was one Leo already had an answer for, though he really didn't like it. Maybe it had to do with pride, maybe with independence. Or maybe it felt like he was ten again and he was asking his father to help clean the mess that he'd made by himself. It was degrading, and borderline wrong. "We get Master Splinter to take over tracking him."

"And Raph? He won't just stay here."

"Can he be moved? We'll take him to April's or Casey's, though preferably April. Less likely that he'll do something stupid. Like following us." Oh, he could already imagine Raphael trying to crawl out of a window with his bandaged chest and cocooned leg, waving his sai around, cursing. Probably because it would be what _any _of them would be doing, especially himself.

"I don't know, Leo. I have the feeling that Raph would like that even less."

Shunted into a corner from a fight. He'd blow a gasket, and April's place was filled with delicate things, not to mention the _last_ time they'd left a turtle there on Outbreak business…

"I'll contact Casey then," Leo sighed, "See if he can keep Raph distracted at home with Shell-cycle stuff. Are there any appliances that need fixing that Raph could do, too?"

There was a contemplative hum, and then silence. Leo patiently waited as a _whump_ of something breaking in the distance made itself known, and Donatello returned. "He can fix the grill."

Leonardo couldn't help the wry smile that crept into his voice. "You're the best, Donnie."

The wryness came back tenfold, borderline cynical. "And don't you forget it."

* * *

**So, yes, this is turning out to be one of those, ZOMG! THERE'RE MORE MUTANTS OUT THERE, kind of fic, but please, at least they're like, not female turtles, right? **

**I fucking love Lucinda. I wish I had a little sister like her, seriously. **

**Anyway, please leave a review reply, going to bed now so would LOVE to see some feedback, good or bad, when I wake up in the morning for another grueling day of part-time jobbing in the late-summer heat.**

**Sincerely,**

**S.S.**

**Seriously, please, review. **


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